"The Chamber of Secrets does exist."
Elijah let the ink bleed slowly into the fiber of the page, testing the weight of each word. He paused, the quill hovering.
It wasn't time. The incident had only just begun; the sole victim was a cat, a mere inconvenience. If he revealed the full truth now and Ginny acted on it—if she questioned Hagrid or went digging into fifty-year-old news reports—his cover would vanish like smoke.
But silence was its own kind of confession. If he told her nothing, she would look elsewhere for answers.
He chose the surgical precision of omission.
"Really? Mr. Riddle, you know where it is?" Ginny's writing was frantic, the loops of her letters wide with excitement.
"Not exactly," Elijah replied. "But something similar happened fifty years ago. You've noticed the Special Services to the School Award in the trophy room, haven't you? The one with my name—but no explanation."
In the dim light of the dormitory, Ginny nodded instinctively, then realized he couldn't see her. She scribbled a quick, "Mm!"
"That award was given because I exposed the student who opened the Chamber back then. By the time I uncovered the truth, a student had already died. I reported it to the Headmaster, but because of the tragedy, I was asked to keep the details confidential. The creature was driven away soon after."
He let the ink dry for a beat, letting the "hero" narrative sink in.
"As for the one who opened it… fifty years have passed. He may already be dead."
It wasn't a full lie. In a way, it was. Tom Riddle was dead, and Elijah was merely a ghost wearing his skin.
"I don't think the Chamber has truly been opened again," Elijah continued. "Releasing a terrifying monster just to attack a cat makes little sense. It's more likely a prank. Last night, while I was using your body, I thought I saw someone moving through the corridors, but I couldn't get a clear look."
The idea that the original culprit was gone seemed to soothe her. But Ginny, fueled by a young girl's need for adventure, wrote back: "Mr. Riddle… can you take me to see where it happened? Where you found them?"
"Of course."
Elijah marked the location—not the Chamber itself, but the hidden, hollowed-out room where a young Rubeus Hagrid had once hidden a nightmare.
Close to midnight, Ginny slipped out of the Gryffindor common room. The air was cool. She moved like a shadow through the corridors, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. On the first floor, voices drifted from a nearby classroom. Ginny flattened herself against the cold stone of a window recess and held her breath.
"—tell them about the voice I heard?"
It was Harry.
"No," Ron's voice followed immediately, sharp and certain. "Hearing voices other people can't... even in the wizarding world, that's not a good sign, Harry."
"You believe me, right?"
"Of course," Ron said, though there was a tremor of hesitation. "But you have to admit—it's strange. Those words on the wall... the Chamber of Secrets. What does that even mean?"
Ron was quiet for a moment. "Someone once told me about it. Might've been Bill... but honestly, Harry, I'm more worried about Filch. Did you see his face? He's a Squib."
"What's a Squib?"
Ginny bit her lip to keep from laughing. Every magical child grew up with that word as a ghost story, a fear of being the one who couldn't spark.
Ron explained it in a hushed tone, his voice dripping with pity. "Born to a wizard family but no magic. If Filch is taking a Kwikspell course, it explains why he hates us. He's jealous."
"Let's go to bed," Harry sighed. "I don't want Snape finding us and blaming us for the cat."
Ginny waited until their footsteps died away into the silence of the stones. She didn't want them involved. Not yet. This was her secret—hers and Mr. Riddle's.
She found the room he had described. It was a miserable, forgotten place, thick with dust and ancient cobwebs that clung to her hair like sticky fingers. There was no monster here. No hidden door. Just the hollow silence of an abandoned stage.
Relief mingled with a sharp, bitter disappointment. If there was no monster, then it was a prank. And that left only one suspect: Draco Malfoy.
Ginny turned to leave—and froze.
"Good evening, Miss Weasley."
Albus Dumbledore stood at the turn of the staircase. In the moonlight, his silver hair seemed to glow, and his blue eyes were unnervingly bright behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Headmaster..." Ginny's stomach dropped.
"Why are you wandering the corridors so late, with the school in such a state?" Dumbledore asked. His tone was mild, but his gaze felt like it was peeling back the layers of her skull.
She lowered her head. "I couldn't sleep, sir."
"Someone is attempting to create panic," Dumbledore said, stepping closer. "Claiming the Chamber has been opened. Coincidentally, fifty years ago, a student reported another who had released a dangerous creature within these very walls."
Ginny looked up sharply. The words were a mirror of Mr. Riddle's. She felt a sudden, desperate urge to tell him—to show him the diary—but she clamped her jaw shut. Her secret.
"At any rate," Dumbledore said, "you should return to bed."
"Yes, sir." She hurried past him, her skin prickling.
"Miss Weasley?"
She stopped, hand on the banister.
"Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"
For a second, the image of Malfoy, the blood on the wall, and the black ink of the diary flashed through her mind.
"No, sir."
Dumbledore studied her for a long, quiet moment. "Good night. In times like these, it's best not to wander."
...
"So you met Dumbledore?"
Elijah's writing was jagged, his presence within the diary suddenly a little cold.
"Yes," Ginny wrote back, her hands shaking. "He mentioned what you did fifty years ago. I knew he meant you."
Elijah forced himself to remain calm. If Dumbledore truly suspected the diary, he would have confiscated it already. There was still room to maneuver, but the ice was thinning.
"It's not your fault, Ginny," he replied, soothing her. "Dumbledore is skilled in Legilimency. For an unguarded mind, it's worse than mind-reading. If someone asks for me, hide the diary. If necessary, I can alter your memories and hide myself within them."
It was a lie, a threat wrapped in a promise of protection.
...
Elsewhere, Dumbledore sat in his office, the Pensieve swirling with the silvery mist of his own memory. He replayed the encounter with Ginny. He saw her hesitation, the way her eyes darted.
Her mind had supplied a name..
Draco Malfoy!
It was absurd. Draco lacked the power, the ancestry, and the Parseltongue. But Arthur Weasley had searched Malfoy Manor that summer. Perhaps Lucius had planted an object. Something old. Something dark.
"If I'm right," Dumbledore murmured to the sleeping Fawkes, "we may finally have found one."
The following days were a blur of paranoia.
Elijah watched through Ginny's eyes as the "Golden Trio" began their frantic planning. He saw them eyeing the Restricted Section; he heard the whispers of Polyjuice Potion and Myrtle's bathroom.
He needed to move faster. He needed power.
That night, as Ginny fell into a deep, potion-induced sleep, Elijah rose. He slipped through the portrait hole, navigating the castle with the ease of a ghost. With the cat petrified, the corridors were his.
The library door yielded with a soft click. He stepped into the Restricted Section, the smell of old parchment and trapped magic thick in the air. He scanned the titles: Alchemy, Dark Rites, Hermetic Texts.
Then, a spine bound in cracked, blackened leather caught the moonlight.
The Book of Abraham.
Elijah lifted it slowly. His heart, or rather Ginny's, gave a singular, violent thud. An original. Not a copy